


And More Slow

by celestialskiff



Series: Where Your Bones Belong [1]
Category: Angel: the Series, Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: Age Play, BDSM, Blood Drinking, Canon-Typical Violence, Daddy Kink, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-02
Updated: 2013-02-02
Packaged: 2017-11-27 23:30:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,972
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/667700
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/celestialskiff/pseuds/celestialskiff
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU from The Gift. Spike doesn't want to ask Angel for help, but somehow he can't stop himself.  <i>"There are a lot of things I could do to you, Spike. I wonder what you want. I wonder what you've been picturing."</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	And More Slow

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: Daddy Kink, violence, BDSM, references to evil vampires being evil, age play

_Florence, 1874_

He is bound. He is silent, though he longs to curse and swear and scream, because he doesn't want to be gagged as well. At last, Angelus comes, a human in his arms, a woman close to death, head lolling on her chest, breasts spilling from a once-modest gown. Kneeling next to him on the floor, in the cool damp of the cellar, Angelus cuts the woman's throat. She makes a damp, gurgling sound and is still. Angelus lifts her to his lips, laps at the blood streaming into the soft cotton and onto the floor. Spike watches, hungry, mouth dry. 

Angelus dips his thumb in the blood and brings it to Spike's mouth. Spike's tongue darts out, unbidden, licks it clean. They repeat the process once, twice, three, times, and then Angelus buries his thumb in the woman's open throat and brings it, bright with gore, to Spike, and slides it into Spike's mouth. Spike suckles it, eager, unashamed, and when Angelus tries to draw it out he makes a soft, needy noise, not wanting to lose the feeling of the thumb against his palate. 

“Easy, lad, I'm just getting you more.” 

He feeds Spike in this manner for some time, and though Spike's hunger is far from sated, it is softened, dulled. And Angelus's gentle attentions are satisfying in themselves. 

At last Angelus pushes the corpse to one side. She is limp, limbs folding in awkward angles. 

“Are you going to let me go?” Spike asks. 

Angelus trails his fingers over Spike's bound limbs, over the places where the skin has grown bruised and sore. “Not yet. I haven't stopped wanting you like this yet.” 

Spike sighs, a sigh like a sob and a groan, but not quite either. “Will you ever stop wanting me?”

“I may get distracted, lad, but if you need my attentions you only need to ask. I will not allow you many liberties, but I will allow you that.” 

He brings his thumb to Spike's lips again, dry, smooth, smelling of blood but licked clean, and Spike takes it into his mouth again and sucks until he sleeps. 

_California, 2001_

Spike didn't go until much later. He was too tired to make the usual arguments: dignity didn't seem to mean very much any more. He didn't go because he had too much to do, and even begging, even debasing himself, would take energy, and he didn't think he had the energy. 

He drank a lot. He slept a lot. He let Dawn paint his toenails blue. 

He might not have gone at all. He might have successfully convinced himself he didn't need to go, except when he found himself to be a little less exhausted, the only thing he could think about was making the trip. It nagged at him. It was like trying to sleep in a room full of mice, tiny teeth chewing the boards, not exactly loud, but incessant. He went, at last, to shut them up. 

*

He found Angel by his scent, and waited until he was away from his humans. He couldn't face him in front of them. He stood outside, in the dark that wasn't really dark but was the perpetual light the humans had created, waiting, chewing his lip, nails digging into his palms. He could smell fried food, pollution, sweat, and, beneath all that, the rich tang of vampire. The hotel was brightly lit, too, and very clean and human, and Spike could not connect it with then Angelus he had known. 

He stood, anxious, eyes roaming the busy streets. He wasn't hungry, and he didn't crave a drink or a smoke: there was nothing with which to distract himself from the agony of waiting, and he found his muscles growing more and more tense, his will to remain growing less, the mice in his head constant. 

(He'd better not tell Angel about the mice. It sounded too much like something Drusilla would say.) 

Angel came out on his own before Spike had time to get completely wound up, or could work up the will to leave. Spike followed him down three streets and through a number of fairly pungent alleys before Angel gave any sign of noticing him. 

Spike stepped forward, then, loud, boots ringing on the concrete, walking in a completely different manner from earlier. “Smoke?” he said. 

“Spike.” The acknowledgement was brisk. “What do you want?”

“Losing your touch, mate. I've been after you since you left your little hotel, and you didn't spot me until now.” 

“If you hadn't learnt to move silently by now, you wouldn't be much of a vampire.”

Spike lit a cigarette to give himself something to do with his hands. He inhaled, the red tip a point of brightness in the dim alley. Angel, unexpectedly, took it from him, took a drag, and handed it back. His fingers were cold against Spike's own, and Spike was, for a moment, struck by how unchanged Angel's features were, how, when time seemed intent on changing everything, Angel's face remained constant. 

He put the cigarette to his mouth, touching the place Angel's lips had touched. “I need you,” he said. He said it quickly, staring in front of him, and he said it simply, not begging, stating a fact, but still: he said it. 

“Do you, now?” Angel replied, regarding him. “Need to kill me? Need to steal from me? Need what?” 

“Buffy's dead.” 

Angel balled his hands into fists. He shifted on his big feet as if changing his stance would improve the circumstances somehow. “What does that have to do with you?”

“You said I could ask.” Spike paused. He had a sudden desire to put his cigarette out on the inside of his own wrist, to watch the smoke come. Vampires were so vulnerable to fire. He didn't. “If I needed you, you said I could ask.” 

Angel was quiet. Then, “I'm surprised your memory goes back that far. That was over a hundred years ago.” 

Spike remembered: ropes, blood, the complete attention of Angelus: a very frightening thing to possess. “Just over. What's twenty years among friends?” 

“And all those times you tried to kill me?” 

“Don't you want to pay me back?” 

“Punish you, you mean?” Angel was close to him in the dark. Spike could smell him more powerfully than he could smell the alley's stench. He could smell paper and pollution on Angel's skin, and underneath it the blood-and-ashes scent of vampires. 

He dropped the cigarette, crushing it under his boot. “I suppose that's what I mean.” 

“I'm not him. I don't do that any more.” 

“You still could. There's nothing stopping you. Not even your conscience: I'm evil, you know.” 

“Perhaps I don't want to. I've got better things to do than waste my time on you.” 

Spike wondered if now was the time to beg. He wondered if he could bring himself. He flexed his hands.

But Angel spoke again. “You're useless at hiding. You always have been. You were outside all evening. I could smell you. Peroxide and leather and whiskey and nail varnish. No getting away from it.” 

“Did you come out to find me?”

“I wanted to know why you were here.” 

Spike wanted to meet Angel's eyes, but he couldn't look up. “Now you know,” he said. 

Angel's hand found the lapel of Spike's coat, squeezing the leather between large fingers. “Are you sure, lad? Are you really sure?”

He wasn't. He couldn't be. He just stood, head down, letting Angel wrinkle his coat. For a moment, they were still, two predators in the dark, both tense with anticipation. Then Angel tugged Spike to him, pulling the narrow body against his chest. Spike looked up, meeting eyes that glinted gold. 

“Answer,” Angel said. 

“I think so.” 

“You think so? You'll wish you said no soon enough. I've learnt a thing or two since the last time.” 

Spike held his gaze. “It's amazing you can learn anything at all, your skull's so thick.” 

Angel was quick. Spike forgot that because Angel could move so ponderously when it suited him, could restrain his movements, could hide the predator within him. But Spike knew he was stupid to forget, and Angel's hand grabbed his wrist, twisting his arm painfully behind him, at an angle that would have dislocated a human's shoulder. He pulled him around so his back was to Angel's chest, and with his free hand he grabbed Spike's chin and tilted it upwards, exposing Spike's throat. 

Spike struggled, squirming against Angel's strength, and hit Angel with his free hand. His aim was bad and he only met Angel's shoulder, and Angel launched himself at Spike, pushing Spike over. When Spike was down, he crouched on top of him, and grabbed Spike's hair, pulling his head up by it. His weight was on Spike's thighs, and Spike could feel his muscles trembling underneath Angel's bulk. 

The bite was quick but not unexpected, Angel sinking his teeth into the place where Spike's jugular once pulsed. Spike stopped struggling. He felt Angel feed, felt the mouth, impossibly cold and fierce, on his skin. He relaxed: everything was going to be all right. 

*

The humans slept. Spike could hear two of them breathing, distant and steady. Blood trailed from the wound on his neck and soaked into his t-shirt. He was slightly dizzy, muscles that had been weak from not feeding properly now weaker. His wrists were bruised and his shoulder hurt, but otherwise he was unharmed. He followed Angel with his head down, up the stairs, into a room, silent and compliant. 

Angel took his coat off him, lifting it from his shoulders. He hung it solicitously on the back of a chair. He took Spike's smokes out of the pocket, shook one from the packet it, lit it. He sat on the edge of the bed, smoking slowly, not speaking. 

Spike stood. 

Half the cigarette burnt down. Angel looked around for somewhere to stub it out, settled on a brown mug with congealed blood in its base. He licked his lips. He said, “I've never understood your oral fixation.” 

“It's not deliberate.” 

“No. It's never seemed very convenient. Strip.” 

Spike stood for a moment longer, wondering if now was the time to push. But he'd already pushed, and he was marked and weak, the way he'd wanted to be. The mice were quiet. He crouched, still just inside the door of Angel's room, so he could unlace his boots. His hands didn't seem to quite obey him, and it took some time. Angel didn't say anything. Angel could be patient when he chose to be. 

Clothes came off quickly. He wondered if he should fold them, but he wasn't prepared to go that far for now. He dropped them on the floor, a tangle of cotton and denim, and stood, naked, limp cock trailing between his legs, waiting. 

Angel had shrugged out of his own coat, but was otherwise dressed. He wasn't looking at Spike, but he said, “There are a lot of things I could do to you, Spike. I wonder what you want. I wonder what you've been picturing.” 

A pause. Spike imagined the cogs slowly turning in Angel's brain. He imagined Angel mentally opening a file, normally kept firmly closed, marked, 'Torture=fun'. 

“Your arms: show them to me.” 

He did. Angel held Spike's forearms, slowly turning them, looking at the cigarette burns and the places where he'd scratched at himself with his fingernails in rage, in despair. “Bit juvenile, don't you think?” he said. 

“Best I could manage.” 

“You should have fought something.” 

He put his hands on Spike's hips, bracketing Spike's groin. His hands were solid, cold. Spike had most recently touched humans—Dawn, Tara—and he was aware, in a way he had not been for a long time, how inhuman Angel felt, how his hands were not living hands. The hands remained on his hips for a time, and then they tightened, and Angel tugged him down onto the bed. 

“It's never a pleasure to see you, Spike, but I was getting bored.” 

It was designed to needle him, but Spike didn't respond. He lay on his front, on the bed, where he had been put. He suddenly felt very tired. 

So Angel began. 

Despite Angel's bravado, Spike found him gentle. He was attentive, interested in what he was doing and how Spike responded, but he was not Angelus, and he did not seem to have it in him to inflict the same kind of pain. He poured holy water on nylon rope, and tied Spike with it, spreading him out across the bed. The rope seared, and Spike whimpered, open, vulnerable, willingly vulnerable in a way he had not been for so long the state was almost alien to him. 

“Next time I'll have some more toys for you, lad. I'm not as prepared as I could be,” Angel said, and he spent some time hitting Spike with a paddle: blows that, to a human, might have been violent, painful and frightening, but to Spike just touched the edge of exhilarating. There was, inside him, the need to fight that pain always brought out in him, but, bound in holy water, he could do nothing, so the need just built in him, built and built, until it flowed through him, and he was above it, like cresting waves. 

Angel used a cross too, trailing a little silver cross on a dangling chain over Spike's back in slow, sweeping patterns, making the skin steam and swell. He made welts and little red sores, and laid it still so it would truly burn, and Spike felt his skin begin to indent and the cross sear until he felt no more pain and he knew it was eating away beyond his nerves. He made noises then: little, open, guttural noises, soft and desperate. 

In response, Angel cooed to him, like he was a cat, saying, “I know that hurts, doesn't it, lad, it hurts a lot, aren't you brave, my little lad, it hurts so much, I'm so sorry,” and Spike couldn't even growl at the sarcastic tone: he could only whimper into the sheet. 

He hit him again, then, on burnt skin, with a blunt piece of wood that began to feel sharp, and Spike murmured, lost in the urge to fight. Some part of him was still amazed by Angel's gentleness, and another part was aware only of how much it hurt. He could smell his own blood, and it made him hungry. 

“I must clean the wounds, mustn't I?” Angel said. Spike could hear him moving on the bed. His face was buried in the pillow, at the wrong angle, he couldn't see. Angel dabbed holy water on his already raw back, and Spike uttered a deep cry of pure pain, surging against the agonising ropes, wondering why the hell he was here, wanting only to get free. 

When his back stopped steaming, Angel untied the ropes, awkwardly, his hand protected with a t-shirt. He pulled Spike over his lap, arse in the air, like Spike was an infant in need of punishment. Spike could feel Angel's erect cock through his trousers, poking into Spike's side. For a moment he was outraged—this fucker getting turned on by his pain. 

Angel hit him, palm against his ass, and though Angel was impossibly strong, it couldn't hurt the way the previous punishment had hurt. And yet, somehow, it hurt _more_ , because it made him feel like a child, because though, now, he could wriggle away if he wanted to, he was held here by his own need, and Angel was in charge, and he had to lie still while Angle hit him until Angel decided he'd hit him enough. 

He felt, horribly, improbably, a sob rising in his chest, a sob in his mouth, and then he was convulsing with grief, shaking in Angel's lap, and Angel, the bastard, kept hitting him and hitting him while Spike wept, first loudly, fighting the grief, crying in Angel's arms in a way that felt as ugly and disgusting as vomiting; and then limply, crying and crying because he was lost and alone and some bastard kept hitting his arse, and he was naked and lost, and he needed... 

“Daddy,” he whimpered into the bedspread, “Daddy, Daddy, Daddy.” 

His voice was muffled, but Angel heard him. He stopped hitting him. He sat him up, pulling Spike into his arms, so Spike was sitting in his lap, head buried in Angel's shoulder, crying and muttering words even Spike himself couldn't really make out, a mixture of “Daddy” and “I'm sorry” and “I can't, I can't, I can't...” 

Angel stroked his hair and his back and rocked him gently in his arms. Then he disengaged Spike's arms from his neck, and Spike trembled harder, blackness coming up against his eyes: he couldn't face being rejected now, he just couldn't...

“It's OK, baby,” Angel said, and it was, because he had merely made Spike let go so he could take off his shirt. With his fingernail, Angel slit his chest open, just above the nipple, a narrow, bright wound. He guided Spike's mouth down, pressed Spike's lips to his chest. 

“Drink,” Angel said, and Spike felt his fangs slipping into place, and he latched on, greedily sucking the blood from Angel's chest as Angel rocked him, containing him in his arms. 

*

Spike woke. He blinked slowly. It was daylight and he was in Angel's arms, his thumb in his mouth, in a position he had not occupied for so long it should not now feel so comforting and so familiar. Heavy curtains were drawn, but light crept in around them, tickling his eyes. Angel was asleep, and Spike didn't move, just lay still, blinking. 

The wound on Angel's chest had healed, but there was still blood encrusted on Angel's skin, though it had dried to a fragile powder. Spike could feel a slow ache in his back, and he flexed his muscles slightly, relishing the burns. He had to appreciate them while they were there: having been fed with with Angel's blood, he would probably heal quickly. 

He tried not to wonder what would happen next. It was never sensible to be too introspective. He sucked his thumb: it was soft in his mouth and soothed him in a way that little else could. Angelus had only rarely punished him for that behaviour: it had almost made Angelus fond. He wasn't sure what Angel thought. 

His other arm, crushed under him, ached, but he didn't move. He imagined he was tied down. He let the pain lick at him, gentle in comparison to last night, which was in itself gentle in comparison to what Angelus might have done. He wouldn't move. If he moved, Angel might wake, and he didn't know what would happen when Angel woke. He hadn't predicted that Angel would comfort him, and he couldn't predict what would come next. 

He lay, drifting, memories coming unbidden of candle-light flickering on pale walls, rough bed-covers, Angelus's hands, voice.

“Are you sleeping, boy?” Angel's voice was soft with sleep. 

Spike was almost tempted to pretend he was. Then he shifted, easing the pressure on his arm, and slipped the thumb out of his mouth so he could say he was awake. 

Angel ran his hand over Spike's naked flank, tender and soft, like he wasn't sure what to do. Spike didn't like that: he would rather Angel threw him out than hear Angel admit he didn't know what to do next. He could think Angel was stupid and still want to do what he said. 

“I need to feed,” Angel said, and disengaged himself from Spike. “You took a lot last night, lad. You'll heal quickly.”

They were sleeping on top of the covers: they didn't really need to be under them, they didn't need the warmth, but Spike suddenly wished they were. He wanted the protective weight of blankets. Angel sat at the edge of the bed. He was still wearing dark jeans, but he was shirtless. He looked tired, and his hair was different, but somehow he still looked the same as always. He eyed Spike coldly, possessively. 

Under that gaze, Spike slid his thumb back into his mouth, submissive, childish. He fisted his hand in the pillow. 

“Those burns on your arms,” Angel said. “When did you make them?”

He slid the thumb out again, tip against his lips. “Different times. A few weeks ago. Some more recently.” 

“They should have healed. You haven't been feeding.” 

“Can't eat humans.”

“Neither do I, and I can still spare enough blood to let you gorge yourself.” 

“Don't like animal blood.” 

Angel snorted. “No one does. We make do.” 

The bitter blood curdled in his mouth. He'd been able to swallow it when he needed to, when it was important, but it didn't seem important now. He could be weak now: it didn't matter if he was weak. He didn't know how to say that to Angel. He sucked his thumb, let his eyes drift shut. He felt the bed shift as Angel stood up. 

Angel was gone a long time. When he came back he was wearing a black shirt, unbuttoned, and he brought a mug of blood with him. 

“Sit up,” he said, and Spike sat, leaning against the headboard. He crossed his legs under himself. He wanted to nibble his nails, chew his fingers, but he kept his hands down. Angelus had taught him long ago not to fidget. 

He gave Spike the mug. It was heavy china, uncomfortable in his hands, and warmed. Spike was glad that it wasn't a novelty mug: it was plain yellow. He brought it to his lips, breathing in the scent of pig. It made him think of farms, farms he'd visited in the lonely countryside when he was a young vampire, places where he could kill everyone and sleep for a day on an uncomfortable bed, being woken constantly by the sound of the cows lowing, desperate to be milked. It reminded him of grime and poverty and lives that ended so easily at his hands. It reminded him of the smell of shit on his boots. 

“I can't drink it.” 

“You have a mouth. Do what I tell you.” 

“I can't.” 

“Don't push me. Drink it. I made it for you.”

He looked up. “No.” 

Angel hit him, once, across the face. 

“What did you say?”

“No.” 

Angel hit him again. He was braced for it this time, and it hurt less. 

Spike brought the mug to his lips, shuddered, and put it down again. “No.”

“What?”

“No, Angel.” 

Angel grabbed him by his hair, jerking his head up by the roots. “What do you call me?”

God, yes. This was easy. This was familiar. This was safe. “No, Daddy,” 

Angel took the mug from him, brought it to his mouth, drained it one long swallow. Spike watched his throat move. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and said, “Fine then, lad. I won't coddle you.” 

He left Spike sitting in the bed while he went to have a shower. It was still day, but it was getting closer to evening. If Spike listened hard enough, he could hear humans moving within the building somewhere, distantly, and he could hear Angel too, the sound of the water on his skin. He heard, distorted by the water, evident only because of his vampire hearing, the sound of Angel masturbating, hand jerking roughly against his cock. Spike listened hard to Angel's grunts and pants, and heard the hitch in his throat when he came. 

Spike didn't get hard. It had been ages since he had been hard. It was one of the many things he had lost in the past few months. 

When Angel came back in, he gave him pyjamas to wear, brushed cotton, soft and much too big for him. Dwarfed in them, he felt like a kid in his dad's clothes, which was fairly accurate and probably exactly how Angel wanted him to feel. 

The cotton felt strange against his wrists, his chest. He felt dirty, messy, his skin bruised and sore, welts still on his back. The pyjamas were too comfortable, too safe. He wanted to be naked, vulnerable, raw. Being covered and safe like this suddenly made him feel lost, and the feeling was so strong he wanted to moan, but he hid it. He couldn't make it obvious; Angel could see a lot, but that was not something he could understand. 

“You won't like being mine again,” Angel said. “I've got stricter.” 

That was better. Spike picked a cotton thread out of his sleeve. “Wasn't aware I gave myself to you.”

“You made it pretty clear last night, kid, when you asked for your Daddy. When you showed up, I thought you were playing, but if you really can't look after yourself I'll take on the burden.” 

“I can look after myself.” 

Spike felt Angel's arm around his shoulders, cool and heavy. He pulled Spike against his side. “Of course you can,” he said in his most syrupy, patronising tone. “But I'm here to help, aren't I?” 

In this position, Spike's nose was close to Angel's neck. He found himself nuzzling at the skin there, needy, hungry, not wanting to exercise the self-control it would take to stop himself. Angel made a soft, comforting sound in response. 

“I know it must have been confusing for you this morning. I'll have to make sure the rules are clear, won't I?” He wound his fingers into Spike's hair. 

Spike sighed, an unnecessary sigh through his nose. He slid his thumb back into his mouth and felt Angel rock him slightly against his side. “You're much too little to look after yourself, aren't you?” Angel crooned. “How have you been managing for so long by yourself, hmm? Poor little boy.” 

He remembered Angelus saying much the same thing. He remember how Angelus had taken him apart like this, with soft words and gentle touches and clear rules, and left him. He had left him open and raw, and Spike thought he really must be crazy to go back to Angel now, to let himself be taken apart again. 

“Don't worry, Daddy's got you. It's going to be all right, little boy. Daddy's here.” 

Spike pressed his face into Angel's neck, and Angel tugged his shirt up, exposing his chest to Spike again. He guided Spike's face to the smooth skin there, saying, “It's OK, I know you're much too little to feed yourself. I'll feed you.” 

He didn't even cringe at the tone. He just sunk in his fangs, and drank. 

He was more aware, now, of how the blood tasted, rich and palatable, flowing slowly. Angel tasted subtly different from Angelus, perhaps because he drank animal blood, but the flavour was still familiar, and the blood was still potent. Spike didn't have to drink much before he was full, but he didn't draw away. It was rare to be cradled like this, and he wasn't going to pass it up right away. He kept sucking softly, licking the small wounds, savouring the taste of Angel in his mouth. 

Angel took his hand and brought it down to his groin. Angel was hard again, cock tight in his trousers, firm under Spike's hand. Spike knew he was supposed to respond eagerly, was supposed to moan and wrap his fingers around the cock, but, like always lately, he didn't feel what he was supposed to feel. 

He stopped nursing. He pressed the heel of his hand against Angel's cock, rubbing it back and forth. 

Angel nuzzled his hair. “On the bed, kid. On your hands and knees.” 

He slid off Angel's lap and did as he was told. He didn't take the pyjamas off because Angel hadn't told him to, and Angel just tugged his pyjama bottoms down around his thighs. They were loose at his waist anyway, and they came down easily. 

He suddenly realised he could really use a smoke. 

“Mm, your ass was very pink last night.” Angel pressed his hand against one of Spike's cheeks, rubbing. “Made you cry, didn't I, sweetheart?” He leant forward, closer, back against Spike's, mouth pressing close to Spike's ear. “Will I be gentle, now, do you think, or will I make you cry again?” 

Spike didn't say anything. He wished Angel would blindfold him, but Angel didn't seem to have thought of it, so he closed his eyes, feeling Angel moving behind him. His hands were pressed into the bed-covers, the cloth soft against his knees. When Angelus had made him kneel like this it had always been on rough ground, and it was strange to be on something so soft. He had liked the blunt pain in his knees. 

He wondered when Angel would notice he wasn't hard. He wondered if Angel would punish him.

Angel's hands were on his hips, tugging them up, correcting his posture. He felt Angel's fingers raking over his skin, and he remembered how that feeling had once gone straight to his cock. He arched his back appreciatively. 

“Good lad,” Angel said, and squeezed Spike's ass. Hit me, Spike thought, but Angel was just spreading the cheeks. He could open his eyes and try to figure out what Angel was doing, try to gauge Angel's mood, but he kept them closed, he told himself he was blinded. 

There was lube, cold and greasy, sliding into his arse, and Angel's fingers. They were rough, probing, and then there was Angel's cock, sliding smoothly into Spike's ass. It was ages since he'd had anything bigger than his own fingers in there, but Angel still slid in easily. He'd trained Spike well to accommodate him, and apparently Spike's body remembered. 

Angel was steady, thrusting in an easy rhythm, and Spike was aware of the sensation of the cock gliding in and out of him, and of Angel grunting. It felt distant, like it wasn't quite happening to him, and he squeezed his eyes so tightly shut he saw stars. Then Angel gripped his sides tightly, pinching the flesh, and there wasn't much excess flesh for him to grab, so the pinches stung. Spike, realising he had been silent for a long time, gave a slow moan. 

Raking his fingers down Spike's sides, Angel rocked Spike back and forth by grabbing his flesh, twisting the skin. He was thrusting erratically now, and Spike thought he was probably about to come. Spike wasn't sure how long they'd been doing this—his knees didn't hurt so he couldn't gauge the time by the growing ache in them, and he hadn't begun to be aroused, so he couldn't tell by how much he wanted to come. Angel hit his prostate a few times, and the stimulation was strange, like a tickle. 

“Fuck,” Angel was muttering. “Fuck, god, good boy, good lad.” 

Spike murmured faintly in response. He felt Angel come, and then locked his arms so when Angel flopped against his back he didn't collapse into the bed. He didn't open his eyes. 

“You can come,” Angel said, but of course Spike couldn't. 

Angel rolled off his back, reaching around. “Need some help, boy?” 

He felt Spike's flaccid cock, his grip too firm and sore. Spike gave a little whimper. “Did you...” Angel let go of him. “You didn't get hard at all, did you?” A pause, then a short laugh. “What am I going to do with you? You're even more fucked up than I realised.” 

Angel flopped down on the bed. Spike stayed where he was, eyes closed, cock limp, come leaking out of his arse. 

“Oh, lie down, you look stupid crouching there like that.” 

He opened his eyes then. Angel looked sleepy, calm, and he held out his arm to Spike, so Spike lay against his side. He felt Angel's fingers tracing slowly over his back, fingering the blisters, but not popping them. 

He thought he might as well say it now: “You know I've got to go back to Sunnydale soon. Protect them. Dawn.” Then he added, “Angel,” hoping that would make Angel realise he needed this to be taken seriously. 

Angel sighed. There was a long silence: Angel's hand still on his back, Angel's chest motionless under his cheek. Spike lay still too, mirroring him, even though he was nervous and he wanted to squirm. A part of him wanted to suck his thumb, but he didn't. Things were confusing enough as it was: he didn't need Angel to feel even more like his Daddy. 

He heard the sound of Angel's tongue moving in his mouth, and Angel drew in a breath. “This isn't a bit like Florence, is it, lad? Or Munich, or Paris, or St Petersburg.”

“No. It's not.” 

“That makes it difficult for me, kid, but I'm trying. I can see that you need to go back, but you clearly need me too. I'll make you some rules, and I'll know if you don't follow them. We'll keep in touch.”

The tone was reasonable, even. He was surprised Angel could manage to be reasonable and be Daddy at the same time, and, even though it was what he needed, he was kind of disappointed. He wanted Angel to punish him for having the audacity to ask. 

“I'll have to find a pen. I hope your handwriting's as pretty as it always was, because I love dictating rules to you.” 

He didn't get up. Spike lay where he was, and then, after a moment, curled closer, sliding his thumb into his mouth. 

*

“We used to have toys for you, didn't we, sweetheart?” Angel said. “For you and Dru. Do you have anything now?” 

He was leaving soon, in his car with blacked in windows, his car that smelt of ash and whiskey, and he had a list of rules rolled up in his pocket, written on cheap printer paper with a ballpoint pen, in copperplate handwriting that looked discordant. 

Angel was sleepy, predictable, and Spike felt safe in his arms. Spike's hand was fisted in the soft silk of Angel's shirt. 

“I have a... In my crypt, I have a special blanket.” 

“Do you, now? I'm sure it's better hidden than any other trophy. I almost forgot you liked that. I sometimes forget how little you are: you'll have to make sure you remind me.” 

Spike wanted Angel to give him this shirt, this shirt that smelt like Angel and blood, so he could sleep with it each night until he returned, but he didn't ask. 

“Nothing else?”

“No.” 

“Aren't you deprived?” Angel rocked him gently. Spike slid his thumb into his mouth, inhaling the scent of Angel. “If you're good, if you obey my rules, I'll get you some things for when you come back. How's that, sweetheart?” 

“Thank you, daddy.” Spike slurred around his thumb. Angelus would have told him off for speaking with his mouth full, but Angel just rocked him. 

“It'll be hard to keep them, kid, so you mightn't get anything. And I'll know if you lie.” 

Spike nodded. Angel held him. The room around them was silent, the night ending, the sky itching with new light. Angel felt familiar and he felt all wrong at the same time, and Spike lay against his chest and knew this was all he had. 

He was glad that Angel was the one to make him stand up, to tell him it was time to leave. He couldn't have forced himself. 

They didn't kiss goodbye. They barely spoke. Outside, in the pale night, Spike lent against his car, and lit a much-needed cigarette.


End file.
